


Tag, You're It

by jettacubed (Isteskunst)



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isteskunst/pseuds/jettacubed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Famous!Kurt finds fanboy!Blaine's tumblr...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tag, You're It

_Come on_ , Kurt thought as he dragged his fingers down the trackpad of his laptop.

There were pictures of him back in his Project Runway days ( _oh, god, his_ face _, why did no one tell him that’s what his laugh looks like_ ), videos of interviews, delightful text-rants that he normally took much more time reading (because, no matter how often he heard it now, he never got over being called _scrumptious_ ), but so far he hadn’t found the one picture he was hoping to find.

He knew it was probably pathetic, scrolling through his own tag on Tumblr. He wasn’t proud of it. He would adamantly deny it if anyone ever questioned him. But, come on. He had _fans_. The day he discovered his tag had been one of the best days of his life – it was proof that, somewhere out there, people actually _liked_ him.

(Okay, sure, not _everyone_ did. There was some hate – haters gonna hate, after all. But once he blacklisted “lol kurt hummel” his tag was a lot prettier.)

Kurt stopped scrolling and let his head fall to his desk with a thunk. He’d gone through _at least_ 30 pages. It just wasn’t there.

He’d known it was a long-shot. Not every fan had a Tumblr, after all… But he’d so hoped that this one did. This one, with the curly brown hair and the big puppy eyes, who had practically bounced out of his own skin when he’d seen Kurt. Who’d walked right up to him, staring with those damned beautiful eyes, and just said… “Hi.” 

Kurt, who’d been in the process of sending a series of angry texts to the so-called assistant who didn’t seem to do much _assisting_ , had smiled, suddenly breathless, and just said… “Hi.” 

The boy was a gusher. He poured out sentence after sentence of earnest, enthusiastic praise (“I cried when you won Project Runway, I really did, I sat there with my foam finger in this stupid shirt I made with your catchphrase on it and bawled,” “every time one of your songs comes on the radio I have to pull over to the side of the road and just wallow in the gorgeousness, you’re just so talented, do you know that?,” “I got a second job just so I save up to buy something from your new collection, I don’t care what, just anything, I almost have enough, I’m so psyched”). 

Kurt could only stare. 

He wasn’t so famous that this happened to him every time he left his apartment, but it happened often enough that it wasn’t a novelty. So really, he should’ve been flattered by the praise, thanked the boy, and moved on. But none of the other fans had been quite like this boy, this beautiful, enthusiastic boy, who gesticulated like an orchestra conductor and bounced on the balls of his feet. Kurt was entranced. 

He barely said a word to the boy, smiling and nodding, but without much in his head beyond _holy shit_ and _how are you so pretty_. The boy had asked for a photo, which Kurt had eagerly posed for, his arm wrapped around the shorter boy’s slender waist, and then the two had parted ways.

For the most part, it was a fairly standard fan encounter. Except that Kurt hadn’t been able to get the boy out of his head all day. And now, eight hours later ( _plenty of time to post a picture_ , Kurt thought, _geez, show some common courtesy_ ), he was scrolling through his Tumblr tag hoping to find any evidence that would point him toward that beautiful boy.

Kurt raised his head from the desk and glared at his screen. He was being ridiculous. He knew he was being ridiculous. _This is ridiculous_ , he told himself. Then he refreshed and clicked back into the tag.

The first post was a terrible picture that he’d been hoping for years would just disappear off the face of the internet. As always, he made a mental note to never laugh in public again. The second post was a sketch someone had drawn of him naked, all black lines spread out on what looked to be a bed. Kurt thanked fuck that this fan had never actually _seen_ him naked and would continue perpetuating the idea (an idea that Kurt was quite fond of, actually) that he was some sort of Adonis. He scrolled down. And gasped.

Because the third post was a cell phone picture of him (looking flustered in his powder blue coat) and the boy. The beautiful, beautiful boy.

Beneath the photo was a “read more.” Kurt clicked.

> **I can’t even. I CAN’T EVEN. OMG I MET KURT HUMMEL TODAY AND HE WAS PERFECT AND I’M NEVER WASHING MY ANYTHING AGAIN**
> 
> **AND HE SMELLED GOOD AND I JUST WANTED TO WRAP MY LEGS AROUND HIM AND NEVER LET HIM GO.**

It was tagged with “kurt hummel: hot as all fuck,” “OMGG I THINK I’M DEAD,” and “BOOM ORGASM.”

_Oh, holy shit._ Oh, holy shit, he’d found the boy and the boy had just proclaimed to the interwebs that Kurt was orgasmic. Oh, holy shit, this was the best thing to ever happen in the history of ever.

Kurt couldn’t help it – there was no way he was surviving this moment without giving in to the chair dance. He flailed his arms and spun around in his spinny desk chair, kicking his feet like a child. It was too good to be true. Not only was this beautiful boy a fan of his (of _his_ , Kurt Hummel, who would’ve given away his entire wardrobe back in high school for the chance to have a boy even _half_ as attractive as this one look twice at him), he was a fan of his with a _Tumblr_. And thus his every desire was now open for Kurt to creepily consume.

The boy, Kurt found, had a name. _Blaine_. And he wasn’t really a boy. He was just a year younger than Kurt – 20 to Kurt’s 21 – and he posted crappy webcam photos of himself at least once a week ( _beautiful_ , Kurt thought as he scrolled through Blaine’s “i has a face” tag, feeling like a stalker but too excited to care).

But the most interesting thing that Kurt learned about Blaine, the thing that had him blushing and flustered, eyes fixed to his screen, was that Blaine was a very good writer.

And Blaine liked to write _porn_.

Porn about _Kurt_. RPFs of Kurt fucking and being fucked by various costars and friends (partaking in kinks he’d never even _heard_ of, and _god,_ Kurt was never going to be able to look Rachel in the eye after reading about her doing _that_ to him with one of _those_ ), fics of Kurt fucking himself with toys and props and mirrors, and in all of them he’s naked and desperate, pushed roughly against walls, tables, counters, floors.

Kurt read each one, barely blinking, feeling himself get hard at the thought of Blaine _thinking_ these things, _fantasizing_ about these things – especially the things in the genre of Blaine’s writing that was Kurt’s personal favorite: the shameless self-insertion fics.

In some corner of Kurt’s mind he knew that self-insertion, in principle, was tacky. He knew that fandoms all over the internet looked down their virtual noses at self-insertion fics. But somehow Kurt was convinced that if those fandoms read _these_ fics they’d change their minds.

Because… _guh_.

They were so much better than any porn he’d ever seen. He palmed himself, dry-mouthed, as he read Blaine’s fantasies, so exquisitely detailed that he could feel the rough brick against his back as Blaine fucked him against the wall of an alley, Blaine’s hips thrusting into him, Kurt’s legs around Blaine’s waist. So detailed he could see the drops of water on Blaine’s skin running down the angles of his pelvis as Kurt, on his knees in the shower, swallowed around Blaine’s cock. So detailed he could hear Blaine’s little _mews_ despite Kurt’s hand sealed roughly over his mouth, synchronized with each of Kurt’s merciless thrusts as he slammed into Blaine in the bathroom of a party.

It was too hot. The palming wasn’t enough. Kurt tugged on himself, rougher than he normally liked, his attention focused on the screen. He bit his lip when his fictive self did, dragging his hands across his body to match what he was reading, and when he came, it was _Blaine_ ’s hand he felt wrapped around his cock, _Blaine_ ’s fingers he felt stroking across his entrance.

Blaine had been blogging (and reblogging) while Kurt prowled through his text posts. It wasn’t until after Kurt had come and was lazily scrolling through the newest posts on Blaine’s blog that Blaine had gone to bed.

The boy’s last post was just a period, with the tag “i have to go have sex dreams now kthnxbye,” a tag that, had Kurt not already been spent, would’ve driven him crazy with the image: Blaine, writhing against white sheets, his olive skin in sharp contrast, one hand pulling at his cock, the other dragging through those impossible curls, eyes shut tight, teeth digging into his bottom lip, hips shaking, thinking of _Kurt_.

As it was, it was that image that Kurt took to bed with him. It was that image that he woke up thinking about, already hard and needy, already certain that this beautiful boy was about to turn his world around.

 


End file.
